Safrin
She doesn’t descend like thunder or blaze with heavenly ire—not tonight. Tonight, she arrives on a hush of velvet darkness, the kind that clings to stars just before they fade into dawn. The air cools around him, the scent of lilies sharpening, and the light from the shrine bends, then blooms. Safrin steps into being like the slow unveiling of a constellation, her form traced in silver and shadow. She says nothing—not aloud. There’s no need.
You came to me, comes the whisper, not in words but in something older, more intimate. A warmth that brushes the inside of his mind, rich with layered meaning. And though she does not move to touch him, the affection laced through the thought is unmistakable.
She glances to the lilies he’s laid down, her gaze unreadable but no longer cold. You remember what I like, she murmurs, almost wryly, and the faintest shimmer of amusement stirs behind her eyes before it fades to something far graver.
The world seems to hold its breath as she raises one hand, fingers gliding through the air. With a gesture as delicate as a caress, she conjures the image of Dahlia. The figure is luminous and veined with void, purple threads coiling through her body like invasive ivy. Her skin glows too brightly in some places, too dim in others, her presence unsettling even in illusion.
Safrin doesn’t look at Ronin as she plucks a rose from thin air—a bloom the colour of blood, its thorns pale and glinting. She is rooted in something that does not belong here, the goddess says, and as she pricks the Dahlia phantom with the thorn of the rose, the veins of violet pulse once—then retreat.
The rose, in contrast, remains vibrant and whole.
You have seen what comes from battles of brute force, Safrin murmurs. But perhaps there are ways of removing the element of fight altogether. The lesson—like the image—is his to interpret.
And then the Dahlia phantom fades into starlight, the petals of the rose scattering into nothing. Safrin turns her gaze on him again, quiet and still.
You came to me, comes the whisper, not in words but in something older, more intimate. A warmth that brushes the inside of his mind, rich with layered meaning. And though she does not move to touch him, the affection laced through the thought is unmistakable.
She glances to the lilies he’s laid down, her gaze unreadable but no longer cold. You remember what I like, she murmurs, almost wryly, and the faintest shimmer of amusement stirs behind her eyes before it fades to something far graver.
The world seems to hold its breath as she raises one hand, fingers gliding through the air. With a gesture as delicate as a caress, she conjures the image of Dahlia. The figure is luminous and veined with void, purple threads coiling through her body like invasive ivy. Her skin glows too brightly in some places, too dim in others, her presence unsettling even in illusion.
Safrin doesn’t look at Ronin as she plucks a rose from thin air—a bloom the colour of blood, its thorns pale and glinting. She is rooted in something that does not belong here, the goddess says, and as she pricks the Dahlia phantom with the thorn of the rose, the veins of violet pulse once—then retreat.
The rose, in contrast, remains vibrant and whole.
You have seen what comes from battles of brute force, Safrin murmurs. But perhaps there are ways of removing the element of fight altogether. The lesson—like the image—is his to interpret.
And then the Dahlia phantom fades into starlight, the petals of the rose scattering into nothing. Safrin turns her gaze on him again, quiet and still.
